


The Longsword and the Bow

by AshesofOrisoun



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Blood and Violence, Book-verse too, During The Hobbit, F/M, No one has an easy death, Not another Bella, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, movie-verse, really slow burn, the 15th memeber
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 08:16:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13142664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshesofOrisoun/pseuds/AshesofOrisoun
Summary: She was sharp and callous. He was kind and determined. They were a wold apart, but that didn't keep their stories from colliding.





	The Longsword and the Bow

* * *

_In which a man swims in mud and a horse is a shield_

* * *

 

There are the brief occasions in which she has been gifted with a good day, when the roads are smooth, the skies are blissfully clear, and those she is guiding are understanding and well behaved. More so, there have been days where the roads were marred with deep puddles and fallen trees, the skies were dark and unpleasant, and the travelers are pessimistic about life in general.

And then…there are days where she finds herself soaked and cold, the roads impassable, and suffering through the squawks and cries of infernal bratty clients that she would rather truss up and leave behind on principle alone.

Today is one of those days.

The skies had opened hours ago, pouring out all they had in a torrent that was unrelenting as the chill it stirred in the air. She had been hoping beyond hope the weather would hold out, just a bit longer, until they could reach the way station. But of course, nature had other ideas. So here she sits, wrapped tight in a cloak, hood drawn, one hand held close to her chest for warmth, murmuring words of comfort to her equally miserable horse.

They had been steadily marching for two weeks, and she thanked the Valar that their destination was only a two day’s ride from the way station, though with the weather holding as it is, she isn't so certain she would be able to force the a wagon and stoic riders any further without something giving – be it a wheel, a horse, or temperaments in general. Thus far, she had been able to keep most everyone in hospitable moods, their spirits only recently drowning in the steadily worsening, wretched weather.

Everyone but one.

He is some sort of merchant on his way to a town that “desperately needs his wares”, which of course made her leery and unamused, though she took his money all the same. Now, he is grumbling, mumbling, and fussing about anything and everything he can, shouting out laments about the cold, about the increasingly rough road, and the state his clothing would be in by the time they arrived. It wasn’t enough to grate on her, no more than to set her teeth on edge, but she can tell – without needing to look – her men are all but ready to cut loose this simpering weasel and leave him to whatever fate befell him.

But then they wouldn’t receive the remaining amount owed.

So they all dig deep into some sort of resolve they reserved for orc raids and men like this, each of her trio keeping to their posts and praying silently that their next destination would be just up ahead.

They rode in this fashion for miles, her outriders keeping close tabs on the forest around them, her own eyes checking ahead, and their charge whining more than any individual she has ever had the privilege of being near. The bruised sky overhead is darkening the day more than the time should allow; what the sun calls midday, the clouds call dusk. The rain blurs the forest edges, tricking the eye into seeing what isn’t there; more than once she finds herself slowing their progress to take a second glance into the murky surroundings.

Fortune had been with them for most of the journey, but she is not friendly with “luck”, nor had it ever visited her often, proven once again by their current situation. On the very rare occasion the travelling went well, the trip ran smoothly, she attributed their “good fortune” to skill and experience. Her associates – not always kind, habitually professional – are rough men made from long nights spent under the stars and ragged encounters with beasts from the dark. She wouldn’t say she trusts them to be honest, but she will not hesitate to admit they had all been in one another’s hands at some point. They are all a rare sight, not Rangers, not servants, and they are excellent at what they do.

They are not good men, but they work well for coin and a good time.

She knows the station is only a hour or so away, though the weather is skewing her estimate by some amount. If the insufferable man they are escorting can keep himself together for just one more hour, she thinks she may have the strength to ignore him in that time. If not...well, if not, there isn’t much she can do about it regardless. He is paying her - her men - and that means the journey will see its end with the merchant in tolerable health and his wares safely deposited at whatever storage he deems worthy.

Her thoughts are wandering, a state of mind she chastised others for, when her eyes catch a change in the blurry view ahead. Slowing, she squints a bit to make out the hazy outlines of men-shaped objects, all lined across the dismal road some half-dozen horse lengths ahead. The light is dim at best, but the shapes appeared six in number, stretched to form a barrier that a wagon had no hope of passing through.

Thieves.

Highwaymen.

Her checked speed brought up two of her outriders, none saying a word as both men scanned the area ahead. The pair’s drenched and equally miserable horses are brought up alongside her, the riders’ legs rubbing her at the knee. One held up a gloved hand just outside his cloak, motioning “five” and “one” with his fingers. With a nod, she acknowledges his assessment, the result of which was their retreat back to stations next to the wagon, taking up positions, one sending the same gesture to the rider beside him. Both draw their cloaks away from their left, freeing up the unadorned, functional longswords at their hips. Instantly, they are soaked through and through, but they would rather be prepared than dry, knowing the little things matter the most in a situation such as this. The final rider, seeing the others ready themselves, closes the gap between the pair and himself, completing the circle around the cargo and their infernal client.

She has confidence in the capability of her men, leaving her free to deal with the situation at hand without the want of leadership coming up. As she rides closer, she can make out more and more of those before her, discerning from their ragged appearance and already drawn weapons that none pose any great threat. Then again, one could always get lucky - or she could be unlucky - and cause more of an issue than was already apparent. More often than not, she has seen those who are “untrained” cause quite a bit of headache and pain for those who are. And here, in the wilds she travels, even the smallest of injuries can prove debilitating.

This in mind, she decides on a more tactful route, hoping to untangle this situation before any blood can be drawn.

Riding up to within a few feet of the man dead center of the group, the woman dismounts, one hand loosely gripping the reins while the other remains tucked under her cloak. These men...they are harsh in appearance. Hair of varying colours is plastered over all their scowling, scruffy faces, and mixed clothing thrown together under ragged cloaks imparts the look of desperate intimidation. Their weapons, too, are old and misused, a mix of swords and a few knives, one ax tossed in for good measure. None displayed a bow, though she didn't worry overmuch about it; her own men would find it difficult to shoot in this weather, let alone thieves who seemed about as skilled as babes.

  
She waits for a heartbeat before the man in the middle speaks up, his voice nasally and grating.

“T’is ‘ere is a robbery.”

If her mind could roll its eyes, it would. Not only are they highwaymen, they are bad at it, and for some reason that irks her all the more. Professional thieves are to the point, make their demands and issue the threats they think necessary to move matters along. It is painfully obvious this is not the case now.

Her own voice cuts through the sound of thundering rain, pitched high enough to be heard over the din.

“Yes. That is apparent.”

When nothing else is forthcoming, the man - who she can now see has a rather impressive lack of teeth, and no small shortage of angry pimples - draws himself up and waggles a knife in her direction.

“Yer gonna give’us everthin’, them horses too.”

His mouth opens in a craggy smile as he reaches out to touch her animal’s nose, causing it to throw its head and take an unsettled step back. The pimply man’s eyes narrow, and he scowls, his watery blue eyes focusing on her. She simply shrugs and rubs the wet horse under the chin once.

“I don’t think he approves of your proposition.”

Before the man can comment any further, she cuts into his retort.

“I want to speak to the man in charge.”

The other men in the line looked slightly unsettled, cutting their eyes to a man just to her left. Satisfied with the result, she opens her mouth to continue when the sorry rat in front of her raises his voice shrill, waving the dingy knife close enough to her face that she can feel it touch the edges of her hood.

“I be the man in charge! Me! So listen good cause-”

In a move that surprises everyone except herself - and to be fair, her men - the pommel of her sword impacts the man’s jaw, creating a cracking noise that can be heard by all, and sending the man crumpling to the muddy earth, his gurgling screams tainting the air; he’d bitten his tongue nearly in two, bright red streaming down his chin in impressive amounts and it wouldn’t be a stretch of imagination to think of him as a dead man soon.

She had come to her patience limit for the ugly creature, and in what could be considered the span of a thought, she had partially drawn her own sword, using the hand that had been kept warm and dry under her cloak. The movement was quick, the sword being sheathed once again before most of the highwaymen had time to blink.

Now, they are angry.

But the man to her left simply looks down at the mewling wretch on the ground, showing no emotion other than indifference, before turning his gaze upon her. His men had begun to encroach on her rather wide personal space, and his gritty voice issues a few words to think on.

“I don’t much like him either. All the same, we’re taking the lot of it, including heads if we have to.”

Hidden as she was behind her hood, her narrowing eyes and slight frown aren’t available for the band closing in on her. Perhaps she could have saved the moment, perhaps she could have diffused that entire mess, but it is at this point that her overdressed client chooses to make himself known.

Clamboring out of the wagon, the partially bald fop flounders in the mire under the many protestations of her men. Hearing his shrill voice, her eyes close for a brief moment, opening when she notices his squelching footsteps behind her. The stick thin, pompously dressed - well above his station in life, in her opinion - merchant is shouting quite animatedly at the rather put-out thieves surrounding her. He seems oblivious to what is happening around him, as the ragged group decides they might as well finish this heist with blood.

She sees it coming, and grabs the merchant’s collar in time to haul him off his feet into the mud behind her. A sword swipes the space where he had just occupied, swung with enough force to take off his head. It is now that the situation erupts, shouts coming from all directions, the screams of her client mixing with the wild utterances of the highwaymen, but above all is the pounding of hooves as two of her men streak through the rain on horseback, swords already drawn as they bear down on the quickly scattering line of thieves.

She in turn releases the eager animal beside her and unsheathes her own sword, taking a single step back to know the distance between her and the fallen merchant. The client is desperately crawling away, scraping at the muck with hands and feet, the weight of his soaked, fine clothing dragging him down and twisting about his legs.

By the time the thieves register what is happening, her men had taken a run through their line, opening the throat of one, while another finds his arm missing. The riders are now wheeling around, dismounting as she stares blankly at the chief of the highwaymen. He has his battered sword held high, both hands gripping tight on the stained leather, and a look on his face that says he knows this isn’t going to end well.

It doesn’t.

He rushes her in the chaos, brunt force with no finesse, intent on bringing her down with one blow. Her mind sees the wavering of his steps in the mud, sees the white-knuckle of his grip, and she knows that his attack will be faulty.

That doesn’t mean she needs to take this lightly.

He closes distance, and she allows him to start his downward swing before her sword snaps up, the sound of ringing steel drowning in the cacophony surrounding them. She doesn’t attempt to stop his attack, she doesn’t need to put much force at all behind the move. Instead, the woman’s body twists as her blade catches the incoming blow and redirects it away, sending his worn longsword out and away, and before he can use his  - obviously - superior strength, she steps in, a knife glinting in her free hand as it is drawn swiftly from its place at her side.

With great force, she rams the shorter blade into his gut.

His eyes grow wide, and his hand reaches down to grasp at the blade, attempting desperately to wrench it free, unable to pry her hand loose as scarlet pours from his middle. He staggers forward, sword lowering as he stares at her, a curse forming on his lips until she twists the knife deeper, opening him up while jerking it free.

He chokes in a breath as he moves to lift his blade once more, but he is weaker now, and it only takes a bat of her blade to send the old steel away again. With no more time to spend on the man, she plants a mud coated boot on his waist and shoves. The highwayman stumbles backwards, tripping over his own feet and landing in a bloodied heap. Around her she can hear the final sounds of combat, the cries of those fighting quiet now, and catching wind of her men calling out to one another.

The entire encounter had taken no more than a handful of heartbeats, as the thieves were anything but trained, and the surprise of her men riding them down had been enough to scatter those remaining alive. She takes a cursory look around, observing the dead on the ground, and the evident unharmed nature of those in her employ. The woman casts a glance to her third rider, noting he was still holding his post behind the wagon, and gives him a quick flash of her hand, telling him the situation was resolved.

Her knife, still in hand, is being washed clean by the deluge, the bright steel reflecting what little light is left. The band’s leader is curled at her feet, holding his insides in a valiant effort to keep them inside. Some part of her decides to ignore his pain, as punishment for what he had brought on them. There is another part, however, that encourages her to remember no living thing deserves a slow death. Sheathing her sword, she takes a knee next to the chief, noting the pain and anger and fear in his eyes; there are more differences than not between each man, but this moment is not one of them. Every man feels fear. Every man feels anger.

Every man feels pain.

Placing a hand in his hair, she snaps back his head and releases him from his pain; her blade, sharp and quick, runs across his throat, leaving behind a scarlet trail that blooms brightly in the dull light. The bare skin of her fingers mixes with the grime in his hair as she tilts back his head, pulling the wound wider and spilling more scarlet onto his chest. The brilliant colour quickly dulls as it is met with rain and stiff fabric, creating a dark stain she is careful to keep solely on him. His body suddenly relaxes, and she drops him back to the earth, releasing her hold on him with an expression reading of distaste. Her knife is quickly made clean with a swatch of wool from the dead man’s cloak, the material thin, barely able to keep warmth, sporting holes in some places, patches in others.

They had nothing, so they stole. They were starving, cold, and so they stole. They were trying to survive.

They had died just the same.

Finished now with an act that still brings up feelings of disgust - of the world, of herself - she sheaths the short blade and stands. There is a pause in her actions before she abruptly turns on her heel and searches for the one thing she very much wants to have words with.

She finds him still crawling his way back to the wagon, covered in filth, his lovely clothes ruined beyond recognition. Taking hold of his collar, the woman hoists him to his feet from behind, causing him to shout out a squeak of fright and pain. Shoving him forward, she forcefully slams the man against the soaked wood boards. He cries out again as she flips him around, her hands fisting great handfuls of his tunic.

“Stop! Stop! I hired you! Don’t forget who I am-”

His words are halted rather abruptly as she cracks him against the boards again, jarring his teeth and rattling his brain. The woman releases one hand just enough to rip her hood back, exposing a face that is, in a word, displeased.

“In this moment, who you are doesn’t matter. Because if you ever cause a problem like that for me and my men again, I will dump your sniveling arse out here and leave your pasty flesh for the orcs.”

Jarring him one last time, she releases his tunic, walking away as he sputters out impotent threats and staggers back to the wagon interior. Ignoring the merchant - and the amused look of both the driver and her rear rider - she strides back out to the jagged line of bodies. Her men had already performed a cursory search on the dead, picking out anything of worth, and now they are mounting up again, one holding the reins to her horse.

She doesn’t mind that they appropriated whatever they found on the once-thieves, as those men are now dead, and have no need of anything material. Her eyes flit down, catching the darker stains in the puddles around them, watching as interrupted red rivulets fran from the corpses to slush together in the pounding rain. She doesn’t know why, but the image makes her frown; she should be accustomed to this scene, and though the death of another isn’t nearly the upsetting act it once was, there are times in which she feels...soiled. These casualties are just more to add to a growing number, a number she thinks may never stop climbing.

The dark-haired woman drags her wet hood back up, cringing slightly at the feel of more chilly water trickling down her neck. She can never escape days like this, the days where someone takes a misstep and suddenly the world goes wrong. Her eyes are again drawn down to the sight at her feet, watching as the rain spatters up scarlet onto her boots.

“Rhegda.”

A voice above her jerks her out of her musings. Glancing up, her gaze is met by one of her riders, handing down the slippery reins of the animal that has carried her so far. The leather is given over, and she tosses it over her horse’s head, and wasting no more time on the dead, she mounts up in a smooth, practiced motion. Gathering up her reins and shifting her cloak around her, she tosses a short nod to the lot of them. Without any further prompting, the wagon driver whips up his team, and her men take up their positions.

Her horse picks his way around the dead, and she settles in for the ride, knowing full well that problems come in threes.

  
  
  



End file.
